


Final Rain

by LymneirianApparition



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LymneirianApparition/pseuds/LymneirianApparition
Summary: When Eileen Galvin meets an alluring woman at a party she is intrigued enough to let herself be seduced. But their potential happiness is jeopardized by the evils that haunt them both.





	Final Rain

I am helpless against the figure gliding toward me; helpless against the world she represents for me. Doesn't everyone want a world they can create? A world where others can live eternally or not at all, as and when we choose for them to? In that world she is someone else's creation. In this world I cannot tell if she is mine or I am hers. 

She is so young, yet older than me. Her feet in their high-heeled shoes do not seem to touch the cold floor; her with her flat belly and long, tan legs that men would have gone crazy for? What does she know? She certainly knows that I am helpless against her: here, alone, like this. 

She floats toward me and my head swims under a squalling red haze, the blood rising in my ears. Her hands raise toward me and I feel my whole body weaken, already feeling and fearing how they will pass through my skin and into my heart. It is not silent. The sound surrounding us is hers alone, for she has claimed it just as this terrible world has claimed her. She floats toward me and I resign, surrender... 

The sound stops. “Alright, that was 'Your Rain.' No rain here in Ashfield tonight, just a bit foggy. Hope you're not gonna let that stop the party though because we are here to keep the jams coming all night long...” 

I pay the radio DJ no further mind as he prattles on and launches another song that I do not know or care to. Cynthia whirls to a stop before me, laughing and picking up her bottle of beer from my kitchen counter. 

“I got a little carried away,” she says with a giggle as she takes a swig. “I just fucking love that song.” I flush as she appraises me, standing before her with my purple handbag clutched sheepishly before me. “Aw, honey, you going shy on me now? You weren't shy before, dancing like you were at the party.” 

“Sorry,” I say. “I'm better when I'm in a group. Besides, you're a way better dancer than me.” That much is true. 

“Better in a group, huh?” The double entendre oozes like an oil slick, just the way Cynthia wants it to. Her wide, soft mouth raises in just the hint of a smile and one of her strikingly dark eyebrows lifts just slightly. I feel all my bare skin – and suddenly I become aware of just how much of it there is – prickle and chill under her gaze. “Well, if that's what you're wanting, Eileen, that's something I'm thinking we could probably arrange. The apartment next door, that's room 302, right? Doesn't Henry Townsend live there?” 

Possessiveness and sudden shame at what I'm doing make me betray myself with an involuntary step backward. Cynthia doesn't fail to notice. She sets her beer down and advances, knowing her game is won. “H-how do you know Henry?” I ask her, feeling that red haze rise again. 

Cynthia's voice is a purr. “You might say I know him from my dreams.” She laughs. “Actually believe it or not, he's just someone I met on the subway a few days back. We got to talking. Turns out he's interested in what people dream about just like I am.” 

“Henry is either always in his room or out of town taking photographs of churches and things like that. He doesn't take the subway.” I am confused by how defensive I sound. I still barely know Henry, even after all this time. It's certainly not like he's my boyfriend or anything. Cynthia sees my shame; thinks it's cute: girlish. I find myself shamed again because I like her seeing me that way and she knows it. Her breast nearly brushes mine as she glides past me to turn and lean upon the door frame of my bedroom. I shiver. She giggles again. 

“Just because you don't see him get out doesn't mean he never gets out. He was actually a really big help. Ashfield's system is kind of a mess. I was lost and you might say he helped me find my way, get where I needed to be. And in return you might say I did him a special favor.”

“Henry wouldn't do something like that!” 

Cynthia rests her hand on a curving hip. I can see the black thong of her underwear rising above the waist of her dark blue wraparound skirt. “You don't believe me? Go get him and I'll show you.” Her heels click against the linoleum, startling me as she leaves the door and enters my space again. “Or I can just tell you what I did, tell you exactly how, and you can do it to him yourself while I watch. Or maybe he could just stand back and we could give him something to take pictures of other than old churches.”

So little space between her lips and mine. I'm still holding that stupid little handbag between us like it's some kind of defense. So much of my pale skin is revealed by this purple dress that I'd actually been saving for a different party, one I never got to go to. She could touch any part of me and I couldn't stop her, do whatever she wanted and I couldn't stop her... We can't hold it together. We both start laughing at the exact same time and keep laughing until we're doubled over. She gives my arm that's still sore a companionable shove that makes me wince. Cynthia doesn't see it but at that moment whatever dance pop morsel is blaring from the radio dissolves in a tornado of static. 

“Crap. Let me get that.” I go over and punch the thing off. “Sorry. Old stereo. You want another beer?” 

Cynthia is in the bedroom doorway again. “No. I'm good. In fact, between here and the party I feel like I've had too many. I think I need to lie down for a minute.” As if any woman who saunters like that seriously needs to lie down! She might want to but that's a different story. It is, however, the story that I started when I picked her up at the party tonight so I follow her, ready to see it to its end.

I cannot remember the last time I have been kissed like this. It feels like years since I have done anything as normal and as innocent as kiss or let another kiss me. Then again, maybe I've never been kissed like this. It's certainly very different from being kissed by a man. Cynthia knows what she's doing. I let her lead. I am not naïve enough to believe I am her first but I am so grateful for her effort to make me feel special. Her velvety lips just barely brush my neck and shoulders, like an artist applying the final most delicate strokes to a masterpiece. My right hand rests in my lap and with the fingers of her left she just barely touches the inside of my forearm, letting them trail until our fingertips whisper by one another like ships in the night. It makes me whimper and Cynthia seizes this as her cue to take me fully to her mouth, kissing me hard; so hard that I feel the awful strength of it down to my toes. Knowing my resistance to be taxed to its limit, Cynthia chooses that moment to take my left hand – my sore one – and squeeze my fingers around her breast. That contact makes me understand – really understand – what it is that I am doing. I can't do this. I shouldn't have brought her here. I don't know why she was at that party but I should never have brought her here. This was a mistake. It... 

“Hey...” Cynthia's voice is so gentle. She is no steely, predatory vixen now. “It's alright.” Those same fingers of hers that have groped and toyed with my body now sweep softly down the length of my brown hair. It is a gesture of reassurance and nothing more and yet still it makes my body betray me. Cynthia grins at the shy look I'm giving her. “We're just having fun: nothing to feel bad about or apologize for.” She gestures around us to my darkened bedroom. “Just us girls here, right?” 

“Yeah. But, you know, that's just it. I...” 

Grinning like the world's most innocent shark, she finishes for me. “You've never done this with a woman before?” 

“No.”

“But you've wanted to?” Those full, fleshy lips are again moving so close to mine. 

“Uh-huh...” 

A playful kiss, just to tease me and make me want her more. It works. “You need me to show you how it's done?”

“You don't think I'm that innocent, do you?” I say, giving my voice a vixen's luster of its own. “I actually know what I want if you're willing to go there with me.” 

Cynthia perks up, delighted and intrigued. “Ooh, do tell!”

I unzip my handbag and guide her hand inside it, letting her feel the hard, smooth phallic length I have concealed there. It pleases me to surprise her, to see her dusky eyes widen. 

“Eileen, you naughty little thing! You want me to use that on you?”

I give a little shrug. “Sure. Why not?” 

“It's big though. Really big.” 

“Like I told you, I'm not innocent. But if you think I am I can always use it on you. I was actually really hoping that I could.”

“Eileen,” she whispers, taking my head in her hands and kissing my mouth again, speaking in passionate whispers while our lips and tongues danced. “Eileen... I wish... God, Eileen, I just wish...” 

“You wish what, Cynthia?” I whisper as I kiss my way down the side of her neck.

“I just wish that I had met you sooner, that's all. I could see you and me going away together, two girls striking out on their own someplace else, leaving Ashfield and everything in it behind. I wish we had. I wish we could.” I surrender control again and she kisses me until I am boneless and on my back with her mouth playing on the bare skin between my breasts. 

“So sudden,” I tease. “Having...” I pause to gasp, so enslaved am I to her tender mercies, “having just met... at the party and all...”

“No,” and her voice changes although her kisses do not. “We've met before. You. And me. And Henry. And maybe you didn't know it was me... Maybe you were confused and thought you were dreaming. I did. And I'll never stop wondering how it might have been different if I hadn't.” 

Her hands are all over me, sliding my dress up my thighs. What she is saying seems important but I can't place why. My left arm has stopped hurting and I almost can't remember why it ever did. 

“I saw you and Henry,” she continues and I feel the throbbing begin inside me, rising and turning red. “I saw you and wished – oh how I wished I could be a part of it! But I was already part of something else, someone else's world.” Cynthia raises herself from my chest and undoes her sleek brown hair. It cascades around us both, suddenly unnaturally long and seeming to glow ever longer. The brown becomes red in my eyes. Everything becomes red. The noise is rising. There is no lust any longer in her voice, only despair and it makes my body cry for her all the more. “And now he's gone. But the world he left – that deepest part of him – it remains and I am there and I can't leave.” 

“You can always leave,” I say impatiently, yearning for her to touch me again as her hair writhes and blots out everything except that baleful red light. “We will do it just like you said! We can go away together, just us girls! We'll make our own world, one that people like him can't touch.” Behind my eyes the pain begins. The bed has seemingly grown sandpaper claws that rake against my back and I feel the numbers he carved into me bleeding and screaming again; all the places on my body where he hurt me sundering anew. 

“Fight him, Cynthia! Walter's dead but you don't have to be! Fight him!” 

“I can't leave...” Her voice isn't really a voice now, only a scattering of ashes. “Can't leave... Only bring back...” 

No longer supported by real muscles or living tissue, Cynthia's head sags toward my breast, blood streaming from her orifices. All the while, that horrible enslaving hair that was never hers in life fondles me: a mockery of the lover I wanted her to be. Her blackened fingernails grow before my eyes, lengthening from her blue-gray hand. A final burst of ashen words gusts from the dead furnace of her mouth. “I am so sorry...” 

I was a fool to have any hope and to wait this long. The pain as I raise the handbag makes me imagine what awaited me in that machine at the center of Walter Sullivan's mind yet still I manage to swat Cynthia's blood-ruined face away with it. But we have been here before, she and I, and I fumble inside the bag, keenly aware of how little time I have bought.

The pain in my body cools as I grasp the hard, cylindrical length I teased her with before and I yank it out, flinging the useless bag aside. I lose precious seconds fumbling on the nightstand in the dark. Seconds in which Cynthia's hair coils around me and her cold, jagged hands nearly enter my chest. But then I find the lighter and shatter the darkness that had seemed so intimate and inviting minutes ago. It lets me see clearly the ruin of her face, but I am learning that the town of Silent Hill takes away everything. Now it makes me take away my grief and longing for her as I choose to survive. With that pale, blood-streaked horror zooming toward me I bring the flame down upon the wick of the holy candle. 

This candle was our last one. Henry gave it to me, “just in case,” he said. I didn't want it, didn't like being reminded. Even so, I have carried it with me in my purse at all times until now. As I said, we have been here before, Cynthia and I, and I am now the one saying I am sorry, pleading it even as the candle's light suffuses her shattered, unnatural body. If only she would scream, that would at least be human, but she can't. The sound from the black pit of her mouth is that of a wind slicing across an ashen waste. 

Her eternal death is banished in the unnatural nova of the flame and for a moment I see her as she was, as she still wants to be: that beautiful woman who loves to drink and to dance, to kiss and to dream. She sees it too, knows it, and then she does scream and the scream is so real. The scream is so real that it makes me think I have really done it, that I have saved her. But then she is melting away, sinking into the floor of my apartment, back to that part of a ruined world that a murderer always leaves behind even when he dies. 

I leave the candle burning on the floor where Cynthia vanished. It is the only light left in my apartment as I give it a long last look, a bag slung over my shoulder crammed with only what I can carry. Henry was right. We need to leave this place. It has been easy to forget that despite all the torture we endured, the 21 Sacraments were only a message and the man responsible for them only a messenger. Whatever was behind them is still out there, still wanting to come through. It is easy to forget that we have been marked by it and will ever be the doors through which it tries to enter. Was that how Cynthia came back tonight? Because of me? I will never know, but I will keep this memory, and I will remember for Cynthia all we might have done together and all that might have been. The lock on the front door clicks and I am gone forever from Room 303 leaving only the holy candle, its wax dripping on the bedroom floor in a steady, final rain.


End file.
